


case log: the bechdel test

by martial_quill



Series: The Wolves of Tirragen [3]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: A Plethora of OCs, Alex of Tirragen is an Adorkable Warrior Nerd, Bechdel Test Pass, Breakdancing, Female Friendships, For Want of a Nail, Gen, Idiots in Love, Idiots in denial, Mentor/Protégé, OC-focussed, Police Procedurals, Self-Defence, Sexism, The Gods Are Not Jerks, Working Class Heroes, the gods must be crazy, whodunit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martial_quill/pseuds/martial_quill
Summary: Akela's first murder. The discovery of a dancing girl's body results in Akela and Rispah teaming up to teach self-defence. An Alex and Akela episode, featuring the dancing girls, Rispah, Sir Myles, Duke Gareth, and a befuddled Roald of Conté. Set in Alex's second year as a squire; he'd be about fifteen in this.





	case log: the bechdel test

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Pitch Perfect meets Midsomer Murders and Tortall. I dunno, I just really think more things about multiple OFCs of Tortall working together would be cool, seeing as that's a rarity for most of our canon heroines.
> 
> ETA: It morphed into an Akela-and-Alex escapade. Sorry. I really did mean for this to be girls-centric. But, well, they are partners, and the time-frame is pretty short.
> 
> Backstory: This is another part of The Tirragenverse, set a few years after The Page Years, even though I haven't finished writing that yet. Akela Ethansra is Corus' first (openly) female Guard in over 100 years. Alex of Tirragen has more or less been seconded into being her partner. After a rocky start, Alex developed feelings for her. Despite this, their relationship is currently not more than platonic. This is set in Alex's second year as a squire, and Akela's first year as an independent Guard.
> 
> A/N 2: Multiple bits of this veer perilously near to a character study of an OFC. You have been warned. You have been given an explanation. (Will you persist nevertheless?)
> 
> A/N 3: Reminder that Alex of Tirragen, as per Page Years, has the Sight and as part of that can see lies. This comes into play.

case log: the bechdel test

 

Or: A dancing girl’s murder results in Akela and Rispah teaming up to teach self-defence, and Akela working overtime. An Alex and Akela episode, featuring the dancing girls and Rispah.

* * *

 

Wednesday, 8th July, 8:00pm

It starts with a body on the balcony of the upstairs room at the Crushed Grape on Rovers Street. Akela swallows, looking down at the Daffodil’s limp body. Called so by a particularly blithe poet, because of the bright gold of her hair, and the litheness of her body as it swayed. Akela had never known her birth name. Her mouth is parted in shock, blue eyes vacant. The dried blood is dull, rusty brown against the cloth glowing orange in the fiery sunset; blood staining high collar of the dress, blood at the corner of her mouth. The stitching on the hems is new.

 _Was it a gift?_ she thinks, her stomach lurching. _An excuse to draw her in?_

Alex’s hand is on her shoulder, and she can feel him trembling beside her. Instinctively, she puts her hand over his, and the idea of burying the pain, the nausea, the horror of, _she’s eighteen, she’s eighteen_ is so seductive if only she could figure out a way how…

But salt water is slipping down her face, she can smell the blood still, and she can’t do this, see these things and solve them and be the strong one as well, not today…

She barely recognises the sound that she makes as she turns, closes the distance and buries her head in his shoulder, her nose against the pulse jumping in his neck, swallowing back bile. She can feel his too-still chest, only the thrumming of his heartbeat reassuring her that he is still alive, as she curls one hand hands into the collar of his tunic. His skin is hot against her fingers. His arms encircle her waist, tugging her closer. They stand there, in the silence, holding each other, until her teeth stop chattering.

* * *

 

Wednesday, 8th July, 9:00pm

“So what are we going to do?” he asks her, over their supper. She’s going through the custard at a disgustingly fast rate, but Alex doesn’t tease her for it. In the hour since they discovered the body, they’ve gone about their usual rounds, breaking up robberies, halting thefts. Yet the rusty brown stains on the white dress have stayed behind her eyelids the entire time, immovable.

The Daffodil wasn’t much older than him either, she realises.

“Solve the case,” she says, through her mouthful, looking at him like he’s lost his mind. He arches an eyebrow, and she scowls.

Strangely enough, that makes him quirk a smile. “There you are.”

He butters his roll a little too hard for her to buy the smooth, controlled tone, and she resists the temptation to snap something, anything. “I don’t think this is a one-off.”

 _That_ gets her attention. “What?”

“I can’t put it down to anything, I’ve got no evidence, but I’m worried,” he says, looking at her, brow knotting. “It’s a contingency we need to prepare for. If this were home, I’d be less worried. Hill women are armed. But–” he pales a little, his mind clearly flashing back to the location of the corpse. “The Daffodil wasn’t. Or if she was, then her assailant…”

And the sentence is a blank ending because Akela knows there aren’t enough possibilities to evade the truth.

Her assailant killed her.

The fact that it is probably the girl’s lover makes it all the worse, honestly. If it weren’t for the fact that she thinks Alex after this night will want to make someone work very hard on the fencing courts, she’d be making plans to get drunk right about now. But that wouldn’t be a good idea, not with Alex and Cooper busy, and her brothers working.

 _And without someone there, if you’re armed, you’re able to be disarmed_ –

Wait.

 _There_.

“Self-defence lessons,” she says. “Teaching them how to use the daggers they’ve got, not just let someone take it. Teach them how to fight past the panic.”

He nods. “I can ask Myles–”

“No!” It bursts from her too quickly, and the confusion flashes across his face as she downs the rest of her twilsey to hide the flush of embarrassment.

_Goddess, Ethansra, keep it together._

But Alex doesn’t ask. He just leans his head on his elbow and looks at her, an eyebrow raised, his fatigue in every line of his body, but he’s still there. He always has been, she realises. He’s turned his life upside down to be there for her. To be her partner, when he didn’t even like her at first.

And that’s why she has to say no.

“No,” she repeats. “You still have duties at the Palace, even if you think I don’t know about them. You spend forty hours a sennight down here.”

“So do you,” he points out, frowning.

“I get paid.” She shakes her head. “I’ll find someone to teach the classes with me. You have a Prince to watch, weapons to train with. Ladies to flirt with, too, no doubt.”

His smile is a weak, forced thing, as weak as her joke, but he nods. “Someone else, then. Another woman might be best. Someone you can trust, someone who won’t sneer at the girls and say they had it coming–”

Akela scowls at the thought, and Alex holds up his hands. “You know some people are going to say it.”

She sighs and nods, the irritation evaporating under his tired gaze like mist before the dawn.

“One of the Goddess’ priestesses, maybe?”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Someone who won’t yell at you.”

Akela nods, a little ruefully. Some of the Goddess’ priests had yet to forgive her for choosing to serve Mithros, rather than his sister.

“Someone the girls won’t kill. Who won’t pressure them to be anything other than who and what they are. That’s the last thing they need,” she agrees.

Which leaves about one option that she can possibly think of.

She can see the moment he figures it out, in the shocked light of his eyes, the first expression he has worn since they discovered the body. His eyes flicker in the lamp light, and she can’t look away.

“No,” he says.

“Yes,” she says, refilling her mug from the twilsey jug.

“You really think that Rispah will go for it?”

Akela smirks, feeling a little lighter. Just a tiny bit.

“If all else fails, she does owe me one.”

* * *

 

Thursday, 9th July, 2:00am

She’s knocking on her door six hours later, as soon as she’s off watch and her log is recorded. There’s no point in delaying.

“I thought you’d be coming,” Rispah says, her blue eyes glinting hard, showing no sign of sleep. Rispah keeps thieves’ hours, like everyone else in the Court of the Rogue.

“Good to know I’m predictable,” Akela yawns, locking her gaze with the other woman’s. “You know why I’m here?”

Rispah nods. “The Daffodil was killed, and no-one knows who did it. But surely you’re not looking for rooms for the other dancers?”

Akela shakes her head. “And give to the Rogue eight pretty dancers in one move? No. The Temples will protect them, if they need it. It’ll be a long walk for them, but better that than dead. No, I had a different idea.”

Elegant dark red eyebrows rise.

“Self-defence classes. You and me. Today was Wednesday. What are your Thursdays like around lunchtime?”

Rispah shakes her head, curls bouncing, and Akela’s heart sinks. Until:

“Fridays work better. We can hold them here.”

Akela sighs, extending her hand. “Deal. I’ll see you there.”

* * *

 

Friday, the 10th July, 12:00pm

They meet in the parlour of the Dancing Dove, where Rispah has cleared the furniture to far extremes of the room and hung a sparring dummy from the centre of the ceiling. The furniture pieces are ornate, and fine, the wood of mahogany, the metal trims frequently of gold and silver. The wooden floor is polished to a high sheen, and the room is well-lit by a large, genuine glass window to the east. Looking at the assembled girls, Akela can barely breathe, despite the fresh breeze blowing in. The girls’ eyes are puffy, but that is their only sign of grief. They do not have time to wallow in their loss. The women in their songs have the time, but the disparity between who they are and the tales which they weave with body and voice has never been more apparent to Akela.

Their leader, now that the Daffodil, with her golden charm and her easy manner have passed, falls to her second-in-command, the proud Lily of the Valley, whose short, curly brown hair frames a narrow, sharp face cold with anger.

“How was it done?” the Lily asks, her delicate hands clenched in unpractised fists, grey eyes hard and glacial with her rage. Akela can’t hold her gaze and fight the guilt that threatens to overwhelm her, so she drops her eyes to Lily’s slippers.

“Knife-work,” she tells the shoes. “It was…it wasn’t quick.”

Lily nods, her fists clenching deeper.

Akela swallows, and lifts her head to meet the girls’ eyes. _Focus_.

“First rule,” she manages, the words tasting like ashes in her mouth. “We do this to defend ourselves. Not to settle arguments.”

“Second rule,” Rispah says, taking the Lily’s hand in hers, and unclenching the fist gently. “We keep our thumbs on the outside.”

Akela is thankful for the strength of the dancing girls in their legs and their core, but their fists barely make an impression. They accept her instructions about press-ups with no complaints, and she is not sure why she expected them. By the end of the morning, all nine of the girls can, with far more viciousness than skill, escape a chokehold, throw a punch, creditably knee someone in the groin, and gouge at the eyes. Akela and Rispah exchange looks, after the girls have filed out of the room.

“It’ll do for a start,” Rispah says, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Do you want some lemonade?”

Akela turns her attention back to the sparring dummy. “You go ahead.”

Rispah’s eyebrows curl into a frown that Akela remembers painfully well from years spent with her, Cooper and Eleni. “Do you want some lemonade?”

Akela sighs, feeling her resistance crumble. She maintains the token anyway. “I still think I should be training.”

Rispah shrugs. “You’re no good to the girls if you get yourself killed,” she says, matching bluntness for bluntness, even as she takes Akela’s hand and squeezes it gently. “Come on.”

She will never admit it to Rispah that the lemonade is refreshing.

(Rispah already knows.)

* * *

 

Saturday, 11th July, 6:00pm

On her day off, she gathers every rumour and scrap of memory she can about the Daffodil. She lived with the Lily, sharing a room with her, right beside the Moonflower and Moonflower’s lover, in Nipcopper Close. She had been one of the younger dancers, but had been so charming and gentle that nearly every innkeeper in the city tripped over himself to have her and her dancers come perform for an evening. Nobody knows the Daffodil’s name. Apparently the rumour that Akela had heard about a poet’s name catching on was all wrong; she herself had chosen the name, after the flowers she loved to braid into her hair like a crown.

“She was so lovely,” Lathan, one of the Daffodil’s greatest admirers, tells her. Her green eyes are dark with sadness, as she swirls her glass of whiskey. _Ale, my lady rose? Ah, no, what was I thinking? Whiskey, of course! It will match your eyes_ , the flutist had joked with a mirthless set to her mouth, as she had invited Akela into her room, knowing why she had come. Lathan is hired by the girls to accompany them, especially for their fan-dances. “Who would kill such loveliness?”

The confusion in her voice is genuine, as is the furrow in her brow. Lathan admires the girls as much as any male poet, but – so she insists – only lovely as any work of art, not as an object of visceral desire.

Akela’s lips tighten, as that thought and Lathan’s words coalesce into something else. _Lovely. Love_.

 _Someone wanted her, and could not have her_.

The hunch resonates, deep in her gut. The love she knows Alex believes in is rare, but something that people call love – a desire to possess, to own, to lay claim and hold of someone – that is entirely common. The hot wash of jealousy, the terror of losing the one you love, even sheer thoughtlessness of careless words exchanged, connections taken for granted, slow-building snakes of resentment and fury… the loved ones are the first suspects in a murder for a _reason_.

“Did she have any family here, Lathan?” Akela asks, sipping at her shot of whiskey and feeling it burn all the way down her throat.

It makes broaching the subject more bearable, but she knows the lowering of her inhibitions is something to watch for. She resolves to do no more than sip her glass. It is, after all, business and not pleasure that brings her here tonight, and they both know it. Now is no time to lose control.

A shake of the head. “You never heard her speak at length, I take it?”

“No.” She knows many, many people in the Lower City, but no-one, she has learned, can know and account for everyone. She used to feel the weight of each and every soul unaccounted for as a burden, and finds that it does not trouble her any longer. _Forgive me, my lord_ , she thinks, picturing the dark, knowing gaze of lord Mithros.

“Her accent was of Barony Olau,” Lathan says, downing her shot, and generously offering her to top up Akela's glass before her own.

She covers it, shaking her head with a smile. “Barony Olau, you say?”

“Unmistakably. I think she mentioned a father and a brother back home, once. Something about how she was glad they couldn’t see the costume she was wearing for one of the performances.”

Akela mulls that over, before standing. “Thank you, Lathan. The whiskey was wonderful. As always.”

With a toss of her head, she downs the rest of the shot, kisses Lathan’s cheek and walks out. The sun is sinking, darkness is falling around the Lower City. And rather than heading towards the Dogrose and the room she shares with the maids, and the laughter and smoke of the inn, she heads south through the Common.

She jogs, rather than walking, needing to feel her pulse accelerate, needing confirmation that she is alive, that the ache in her heart has not killed her. Not yet.

_She was eighteen._

The wind is fresh against her face, carrying the scent of the woods ahead, and she breaks into a run, needing to be among the woods that remind her of her earliest childhood, the high, mountainous forests of Galla. The carefully tended stands of beeches and oaks that lead to the artificial pond look nothing like the great pine and sycamore forests, but they still smell the same. The coolness of the woods, a reprieve from the summer heat. The smell of mould and moss and mulch. Life and death. Perhaps it’s the whiskey, but as she finds her way to the pond where Alex taught her how to swim one spring, she finds the words spilling from her, as she remembers an earlier death.

“I never knew if you were angry. That I chose to serve your brother, and not you, when you were the one who forgave me,” the words are spilling out of her, as she walks, confident in her solitude.

There is no other human being around her. And maybe, here, surrounded by wind and sky and no other person, with the confidence of amber fire in her throat, she can let it out.

She listens intently for a reply. There is no thread of connection and conversation that Alex had described feeling once, when they had been keeping watch one lonely night.

But there is the chuckling of the water, and the soft breeze that swept through the woods.

Suddenly, she knows that if there ever was a betrayal, it is forgiven again, just as the first death was.

She closes her eyes and feels a soft brush of phantom lips against her temple. Tears spring to her eyes, her walls destroyed by the gesture.

“Is she safe?” she chokes out. “Is she well?”

She hears no response, but then, perhaps she should not be relying on that particular sense. So far, there has just been a _knowing_.

She opens her eyes, sees the lake glowing like fire against the orange and red blaze, the sunset’s beginning strike at the rippling water.

And Akela trembles, sinking to her knees on the bank of the lake, as the guilt is released, and a phantom hand ruffles her hair, as though to say: _silly love. It is not your burden to bear_.

Long minutes of silent tears later, she leans forward and splashes the water on her face. _Go with peace, Daffodil_ , she thinks, her breaths evening. _I’ll teach them to fight_.

* * *

 

Sunday, the 12th July, 12:30pm

The runner slips up to Akela in Nipcopper Close, feet skipping lithely over the muck that pervades the Lower City in summer. She recognises him instantly. Aidan, twelve years old, father-name unknown, and he runs with the Day Watch shift from eleven till five.

_Oh, hell._

“Guardswoman Ethansra?” he asks, barely breathless. Good lungs, this one.

“That’s me,” she says. “Where am I needed?”

“The Temple of the Great Mother. One of the…priestesses,” he says, the pause making it clear he had connected the dots just in time. Good boy.

Akela nods and starts wending through the crowd with him, her hand drifting to her knife. The second they reach the boundary of the Common, beyond the narrow, twisting streets of the Lower City and the throng of people, both of them break into a run.

Her legs pump faster, _faster, Ethansra, Goddess and Mithros, don’t let me be late, don’t let me be late…_

They skid to a halt in front of the glowering Temple guards, who unbar their axes and let them in.

In the central chapel, the Lily is standing there, pale and shaking. “What is it?” Akela pants.

The Lily presses a scroll into her hand, only choking out “Here”, and Akela unrolls it, her eyes widening.

It’s a portrait of her, beautifully detailed, but it’s not the Lily Rispah has described to her, as she stands on the stage, proud and defiant, entrapping men with slender arms and an indomitable will. Her body is flat, limp, lying prone, eyes sightless and her neck broken.

_Whoever’s drawn this has either a very good imagination, or has done it before._

Akela takes a deep breath. “Alright. I’m going to need to ask you some questions,” she says. “Hold on a moment.” She turns to Aidan. “I’m going to need you to run to the Palace, and find and fetch Sir Myles of Olau’s squire.”

* * *

 

Sunday the 12th, 2:10pm

“I hate you with the might of the ocean itself,” Akela tells Alex, as he arrives at the Temple. “But never more so than when you’re right.”

He swears. “Who died?”

“Oh, no more bodies just yet. But Lily has a present.”

She passes the scroll to him, and he snarls, before rolling it up again.

“Let’s catch this bastard,” is all he says.

* * *

 

The first rule of crime is to suspect the victim. – Kebibi Ahuda, 251 H.E, ‘A Treatise on Crime: edited by Rebakah Cooper’

* * *

 

They have been steered to a little side-room, with no more decoration than a pallet on the floor, a shrine in the corner, and twinkling mage-lights on the wall that give off a brighter, steadier light than flickering candles would. Alex kneels before the shrine, and Akela breathes a silent unconscious prayer to every god she's ever given an offering to. _Goddess, please. Mithros, please. Semele, please. Black God – please_.

Then he rises and joins her, where the ink and paper are already set out.

“Lily,” Akela begins, settling down cross-legged onto the floor, hands resting on her knees. Then she shakes her head. “No. I need your real name for this. What is it?”

The girl smooths down her dress. “My name is Cate,” she says, her tone low.

“Cate,” Akela says. “I’m going to ask you some questions. Alex will take notes of the conversation.”

A _nd you’re going to lose your temper at me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am._

The Lily – no, Cate’s – eyes dart from hers, her fear radiating from her. _Good_. “Everything I say?”

Akela can’t help the sigh that escapes her as she nods. Alex scowls at her, before turning back to face the girl, his expression changing to concern.

“Yes,” Alex says. “And I understand that you might…have reservations about that. But in order for us to find justice for the Daffodil, we need to take notes.”

“Who will read them?” Cate asks.

“No-one except us,” Akela says. “Alex writes in a code. We will have to write reports of what was done, but Guard’s business stays with the Guards.” She forces the truth out through gritted teeth: “While you are with us, you are under our protection.”

Akela takes a deep breath, and musters her most pleasant smile. “So, Cate, my first question is: where were you, the day the Daffodil’s body was found?”

“What?” Cate’s eyes are wide, her mouth agape. Akela keeps the pleasant, professional smile firmly in place. It has a much more destabilising effect on people than snarling or being aggressive, to be as blandly pleasant about death as a noblewoman discussing embroidery techniques. She takes comfort that Alex’s own face is neutral, reassurance gone.

“Where were you, the day the Daffodil’s body was found?”

Cate’s knuckles are white, fists clenched, her beautiful face contorted with rage. “You cannot possibly think that I–that–” she breaks off, clenches the fists tighter still.

“I can and do think many things,” Akela says, her eyes narrowing. _I could be wrong. But I’m not. She’s angry. She’s worried of being found out._ She focuses all of her will and her determination to know, to see justice for the Daffodil done into her voice. _“Where were you?”_

Cate’s eyes have narrowed to slits now, before she speaks, her voice ice cold. “You dare ask me. You dare. And you don’t even know her name.”

“Then tell me her name,” Akela says, keeping her tone equally cool.

“When you are not worthy to even pronounce it?” Cate snaps.

Akela digs her fingers into her kneecaps. “My worthiness is immaterial,” Akela replies. “What was her name?”

Cate draws in a deep, shuddering breath, and stares at Akela.

Akela stares back, allowing herself a frown.

The girl shuts her eyes, and then opens them again. “Flick,” she says.

Akela’s fingers twitch, grip loosening in surprise.

The girl’s tone is almost reverent, as she repeats it. “Her name was Flick.” There, again, pale lips wrap around the name, and breathe it out with an unmistakeable intimacy.

_She loved her?_

“Where were you, the day Flick died?” Akela repeats.

The softness vanishes from the face. “Flick and I share a room together.” Akela feels a wave of unease at the use of the present tense. “She told me she was to perform a solo performance at the Crushed Grape, the night before. I woke up late, around noon, because we and the girls had been performing. I did not see her the entire day. I was doing a fan-dance class with Moonflower and Black Rose in the afternoon. That night was the last time I saw her.”

One fist unclenches to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, exposing a palm where red crescents are beginning to form. “And then I was told that she was dead.”

Alex taps his thigh. _Pam, pam_.

_Truth. …she’s innocent?_

She shakes her head, briskly. _It happens, Ethansra. Move to the next possible scenario_.

“Alright,” Akela says gently. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Flick?”

Cate shakes her head. “Everybody loved Flick.”

Akela arches an eyebrow. _Nobody’s that well-loved_.

“Did she recently have a falling-out with anyone?” “No.”

Akela’s eyebrows arch further, and she opens her mouth, only to be interrupted by another two slaps of Alex’s hand against his thigh. Truth. As far as Cate knows, at least. But who would know better than Cate, if she lived with Flick?

_She was in love with her. It could have blinded her._

“No threats?” Akela asks.

“No.”

Pam, pam.

Akela sighs.

“Alright, moving on. Can you think of anyone who might want to harm you?”

Something resembling a smirk – a bitter twist to the right corner of her mouth – crosses Cate’s face.

“Well, it was always Flick’s job to charm people, and my job to keep anyone from bothering us,” she says. “I had an argument with Leo last week. But–” she breaks off, flushing.

Akela’s fingers tighten again.

“Go on,” Alex says, his voice soft.

“There was an admirer,” Cate says. “He– for the past few months, he’s come to every performance I have been in, and he always spoke with me afterwards. He’s a noble. The last time, he asked me if I would be his mistress.”

Pam, pam.

Akela’s eyebrows rise. “And what did you say?”

Cate shakes her head. “I turned him down. I said I could never leave my girls. I…lost my temper, a bit.”

“And how did he take that?”

Cate shrugs. “He was very calm about it. Much calmer than I was expecting, honestly.”

Akela feels a twinge of unease in her gut. _Since when do nobles react graciously to not getting what they want?_

 _Pam, pam._ She glances at Alex, frowning at his notes.

_…besides him. He’s a good man, not a gentleman. And even he took a while to live with it._

“And Leo?” Akela asks, filing the names away.

The flush that has appeared on those cheeks darkens further still. “Leo is my…friend,” the girl says, in a bright, confident voice.

The name is said in the same way she’d said Moonflower’s, without the same reverence given to Flick’s.

 _Pam_. But if the blush hadn’t tipped her off that that wasn’t the whole truth, that would have.

“Your friend,” Akela repeats. _Your friend who you canoodle with?_  

“Yes, my friend,” Cate says, her gaze unflinching.

_You’re not bad at this, I’ll give you that._

“What did you argue about?”

Hesitation, and then– “He wanted something that I couldn’t give him. We argued. That was about a week ago, and I haven’t seen him since.”

_What?_

_If you were in love with Flick, and he has feelings for you, and someone else asked you to be his mistress…_

A feeling of dread crawling up her throat, Akela asks, “Was Flick in love with anyone?”

Pain flaring in grey eyes, before Cate closes them, tilting her head towards the ceiling. “To the best of my knowledge, no.”

 _And not with me,_ hangs in the air.

She doesn’t need the _pam, pam_ that time, but it is nice to have confirmation.

* * *

Sunday the 12th, 3:00pm

 

After the notes have been safely locked in their desks in the station, they walk to the Common. Akela stares overhead at the sky, as they find a beech tree to sit under.

“Is it just me,” she asks him, lying down, breathing in the smell of the grass and the blossoming weeds around them, “or does no good ever come from people falling in love?”

“You mean Cate’s admirers?” he glances at her, plucking a daisy.

“You’re improving, squire.”

“She blushed so hard, it would have been difficult not to see it,” his voice is light, as he twists petal after petal off the daisy.

“Not just Cate’s admirers, though,” Akela says, closing her eyes. “She loved the Daffodil. And what happened? Flick died, and now she’s heartbroken.”

That does not provide the sputter of shock that she had been expecting. Instead, there is silence.

“So we have one relationship broken up by death, where Cate will be pining for the foreseeable future,” Akela ticks off on her fingers, still not opening her eyes. She can feel the blades of grass tickling her nose; the sound of Alex’s weight shifting on the ground beside her. “We have one relationship with the man pining for the woman who is still in love with a dead woman.” _We’ll politely ignore my disastrous attempt at a handfasting, and your ill-fated fancy for me. I still don’t understand how you can look at me._

“A recently dead woman,” Alex interjects.

“Still in the Peaceful Realms, Pretty Boy,” Akela says. “And a nobleman who’s in love with the living woman, who refused him. And the living woman has just had a death threat, possibly from either of these admirers.”

“Or it could be from someone else entirely.”

“But they are the ones who have motive, seeing as she has rejected both of them, so that’s where we need to start,” she says. “Honestly, is there anything good that comes from people falling in love?”

There is a long silence, and a shifting of weight beside her. “Akela,” and she shivers a little, at the way he says her name. Softly, like it’s his favourite sound in the world. “ _Akela_. Look at me.”

She obeys, and her breath catches in her throat at the look in his eyes. She tries oh, oh so hard to not think of the day when she had braided flowers into her hair, and Marin had looked at her with such a similar expression, tenderness and wonder, like she’d hung the stars. But the expression in Alex’s eyes is too similar for her to _not_ notice.

“I know–” he hesitates, and then his eyebrows unknot, his mouth firms, and his back straightens a little. “I know it’s hard some days,” he says, reaching across and squeezing her hand. “But – I think a lot of good comes from it.”

She tilts her head, ruthlessly pushing away lingering memories of grey-blue eyes and enormous hands; a palm that spanned more than half of her waist, and shoulders that she could almost _climb_.

“Alex, you know the last thing I want to do is to hurt you–” The left corner of his mouth turns up in a wry little smile. “But…” she shakes her head, closing her eyes again. _Goddess above_. “I honestly can’t think of a single time I’ve brought you anything other than pain. I don’t know how you can stand to be my partner.”

She opens her eyes again, and watches as a mix of emotions played across Alex’s face: shock in the widening eyes, anger and incredulity in the parted lips…and finally, as his mouth closes, a fondness in that wry, lopsided curve of his smile.

“Akela,” he says again. “Dance for me.”

She tilts her head, raising her eyebrows. “Say again?”

“Dance for me,” he repeats. “I’ll give you a rhythm.”

Slowly, she rises to her feet, and he raps out a rhythm, clapping his hands and slapping his chest.

_ba clapclapclap baba clap clap_

_ba_ _clapclapclap baba clap clap_

looping over and over again.

She sways back and forth on her feet, feeling the rhythm in her hips, humming along to the beat.

It is no rhythm for light footwork, no fast melody that had her tripping on her feet, kicking up. It’s the rhythm of the tides of Port Caynn, swaying her hips from side to side, swirling her arms up and down, in time with the rhythm, creating fountains and waves with her gestures. Bending back from her hips until she flips herself onto her hands, and backwards onto her feet again, and then onto all fours, whirling her body around and around, on only her hands.

Later, her stomach muscles will detest her for this, her arms will scream–

but for now, she dances, with the sunlight sinking into her back, with sweat beading on her forehead. Blueness yawns overhead, a vast and gaping vacuum, and a boy-who-isn’t sits in front of her as she dances for him, with hair that has midnight sky trapped in it, and glowing eyes that send a thrill down her spine.

 _I’m a terrible person_ , she thinks, seeing the sheer warmth in those eyes. _I love that he loves me, even though I can’t love him._

When she can dance no more, she sinks to her knees in front of him, her heart pounding, sweat pouring down her face, stray strands of her hair coming loose from her braid and wisping in front of her eyes.

And he smiles, the expression oddly soft on her fierce, sarcastic boy’s face, reaching out and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“You’ve given me your friendship, Akela,” he says. “It’s my favourite thing in the world. It always will be.”

Oh, _hell_ , there’s something in her eyes.

“I’m afraid I’m too selfish,” she gasps, with a shaky laugh. “You certainly deserve more, but I can’t give it to you, and I can’t give you up now. I – I need you too much, Pretty Boy.”

He squeezes her hands gently, opening his mouth and then closing it, before he says, his voice very raw and his eyes very bright: “Don’t you _dare_ call yourself selfish.”

She squeezes his hands back, as the tears break free. It’s not the talk, she tells herself. It’s just stress.

“So. Talk to Leo?”

“Do you know him?” he accepts the change of subject without missing a beat, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. It’s a thin veil, but she smiles anyway. Clever boy.

“No, but we ought to have a word anyway. Do you know the nobleman?” she asks, her voice less shaky now even as her tears continue to stream down her cheeks.

“I can find out. Myles will know him. Will of Macayhill, right?”

Akela nods.

“I’ll ask.”

“Thank you.”

He shrugs, squeezing her hands once more before getting to his feet. “Race you to the top of that hill?” he points to the eastern rise of the Common.

She smiles, letting out another laugh. It’s less shaky this time.

“You are _so_ on.”

* * *

 

Monday, 13th July, 5:00am

“Do you know of a Leo Kantwell?” Akela asks Harmony, kissing her on the cheek as she gets up from where she has been dozing in the chair at the kitchen table.

“You slept here again, Akela?” Harmony asks, looking appalled as she smooths down her foster daughter’s hair.

“Dozed off,” Akela admits. “I promise, I’ll be out of your way and in bed in a few minutes. But please, I need an answer to that question.”

“Kantwell,” Harmony says. “The name is familiar. I know the name.” She stares up at the ceiling, and then brightens. “That’s right. I remember a Lorie Tanner, who married a Horace Kantwell. He was a farrier, lived in Prettybone District, but she was from around here. I still remember the wedding.”

“Did her son become a farrier as well, Auntie?”

“Probably, sweetheart. Go and sleep.”

“Yes, Auntie!” Akela says, ducking into the courtyard.

She will. Just as soon as she has stretched the crick out of her neck.

* * *

 

Monday, 13th July, 10:00am

She stands in the doorway of the farrier’s house, dodging around an ornery donkey. “Excuse me?” she yells. “I need to talk to Leo Kantwell!”

“That would be me,” rumbles a voice behind her.

She pivots and reads him. Broad-shouldered, 5”10, deeply tanned, sun-bleached hair, hazel eyes with a deep irritation at the world in them, and a jawline so sharp it could be weaponised.

 _Don’t drool, Ethansra!_ says the voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Jewel.

“It’s good to meet you,” she says, extending a hand. He grabs it, and her hand is not small for a woman’s, but it’s utterly dwarfed by his, as he lifts it to his lips. He is smirking, but the flirtatiousness in the curve of his mouth can’t mask the bitterness in narrowed eyes.

“Likewise,” he says.

 _Oh, no, you’re going to try and make this fun_.

“So how can I help you, miss?” he asks.

“You can answer some questions,” she says, extracting her hand. “My name is Akela Ethansra, I’m a Guard, and I’m here to ask you some questions about a girl named Cate.” His eyes darken and she smooths down her tunic. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

He nods, and walks through the cramped shop into a tiny yard.

It’s taken up almost entirely by a sturdy apple tree, in full blossom, and Akela can’t help a tiny smile at the sight. Then Leo turns around, folding his arms, and she schools her face again.

“What happened?” he asks, his tone gruff. “Is she in trouble?”

“Maybe,” Akela says. The heartbreaking thing is that it’s the most honest answer she can give, regardless of how evasive it sounds. “Can’t say for sure. She was recently sent a death threat. A portrait of her, strangled.”

He draws in a sharp breath, and exhales slowly. His fists clench and unclench. “Is she safe?”

“Master Kantwell,” Akela says, as gently as she can. “While I understand that you are concerned, I need you to answer my questions before I can answer yours.” He growls at this, but nods after a few moments. “Where were you last Wednesday afternoon?”

“Here,” gesturing at the farrier’s shop. “Just ask my Ma.”

“How long have you and Cate been…” she lets her voice trail off.

His laugh is bitter. “Four months.”

“How long have you known each other?”

“A year or so. I met her when she was performing at one of my haunts one night.”

“She said you argued last week..”

“We did.”

“About?”

His gaze shifts to the apple blossom tree, and Akela stifles a sigh. “I love her,” he says at last. “I love her, and she –” he breaks off, staring even more intently at the apple tree. “She doesn’t feel the same way,” he says, his tone hard, bitterness in the set of his shoulders and the curl of his lip.

“Where were you on Sunday?”

“Morning devotions at the Smith’s God’s temple,” he says. “Then I met with some friends of mine to go have a game of dice.”

“Where?”

“Wailing Wolf. Do you want my friends’ names as well?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I do, but there’s not much fucking point in that, is there?” his tone is crisp. “Jack Smith, Fritz Tanner, Jem Cooper.”

Akela nods, slipping her little notebook down her shirt. “Thank you for your time,” she says, before bowing to him. She hesitates, before blurting out, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t look away from the apple tree.

“Is she safe?” The tone is no longer bitter, or angry. Just weary.

“Yes,” Akela says, “but there’s a bastard I need to catch.”

“Mithros aid you.”

“May your metal’s mettle be true,” she says, already weaving her way back through the shop.

_He hasn’t taken his rejection well, evidently. So why am I sure that he wasn’t the one to do it?_

* * *

 

Monday, 13th July, 9:00pm

“So hold on,” she says, walking down Rovers Street. “What do we do if it is the nobleman threatening Lily?”

Alex frowns at her. “Are you alright?” “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?” he persists, stepping closer, putting a hand on her forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever.”

“Alex!” she snaps. “Tease me later. What do we do if it’s the nobleman?”

He glares. “I was under the impression that we would arrest him. It’s what we usually do when someone goes around threatening to kill people, Guardswoman.”

“And he’s a noble,” Akela stresses.

“And if he tries to make a political fuss about his arrest, then he’ll have Duke Gareth to deal with. Trust me, His Grace will take a _very_ dim view. So will Sir Myles.”

Akela feels the urge to snap _how was I to know_ and stamps down on it, hard. Alex sees something in her face, and squeezes her shoulder.

“Look,” he says, more gently. “He’s not getting away with it. I promise, Akela.”

His voice is low and serious. Akela covers his hand on her shoulder, and feels a spark of lightning at the contact. It’s enough to make her crack a smile.

“Alright. But we need a plan to draw him out, if it is him. Can you get Sir Myles down to the Dove tomorrow night?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he says.

“Good. I’ll handle Rispah.”

* * *

Tuesday, 15th July, 3:30pm

Every Guard has something they do to stay sane. Something that is not the job. Frequently more than one thing. They drink. They swear. But then there is a tendency to pick up a hobby, or else go insane, Jewel explained during Akela’s Puppy year. So Carver gardens, and refines his sign. Jewel weaves surprisingly high-quality baskets. Gershom carves little toys for his siblings with the off-cuts from the Carpenter’s Guilt, the scraps that are too brittle for them to use and require infinite patience and a gentle touch. Erskine makes charms, just good enough to earn a bit of money on the side. Alex has two: fencing, and needlework.

Akela has permitted exactly three people in the station to discover that hers is baking.

Once a week, after Court Day is concluded, Akela bakes something, and takes it to the border between Patten District and the Lower City. One inn has a rickety exterior staircase that she can scramble up, one of Jewel’s baskets cunningly secured to her back, where her mentor is already waiting for her, a patient smile on his face.

(She loves Carver, she does, but if she needed to spend an hour in silence, then she would just as soon go for a walk around the Common. But Jewel has long since figured out just how to spark off Akela and make her laugh, bright and genuine, as only her brothers and Alex have managed, taking the ghost of the child she was and bringing it back to animate her frame, one moment at a time.)

“’lo, Ethansra,” Jewel says, lazily. He is sprawled out on the shingles of the roof, a double layer of blankets cushioning him from the tiles, shirtless to best enjoy the summer heat. His silver charms – a Goddess’ circle and one in the shape of a crow – dangle around his neck and glimmer in the light. There is a truce: Akela doesn't ask Jewel why he wears a woman's pregnancy charm, and he doesn't ask her about the red rose tattoo on her neck. They both have enough birdies and intuition to guess the reasons behind the mementoes.

“’lo, Jewel,” she returns, carefully taking the pack off and setting it down. Her smile widens as Jewel bolts upright at the smell of the pie.

“You broke out my favourite,” her mentor notes. “Something’s serious.”

Akela shrugs. “You caught me,” she admits, sinking onto the blanket beside him with a sigh.

“Spill,” he orders, unpacking one of his baskets. The smell of still-warm bacon wafts up, and her mouth waters.

“And if I want to keep it to myself?”

Jewel snorts. “Please. You know I’ll have it out of you, one way or another.”

Akela huffs at that, but acquiesces, before grabbing a rasher of crispy, crispy bacon and launching into the tale so far. 

When she finishes speaking, Jewel looks at her, shaking his head. “You’re thinking about it too much.”

Akela scowls at him, carving herself another slice of the pie.

“Because being stupid about this is definitely the way to prevent the Lily from dying as well.”

“Self-defence classes were Alex’s idea?”

“Sort of. He thought they'd need protection. Classes were mine.”

“Temples yours as well?”

“His,” Akela admits, “he was the one who thought the other girls might be in danger.”

“He’s going to be a good knight, and a terrible Guard,” Jewel says, stealing her slice, provoking her to shriek and yank the plate back from him. The scuffle is abruptly cut off when the pie splatters onto Jewel’s bare chest, and she sits on her heels, defeated. Jewel smirks at her, and picks the now-eviscerated treat off of his skin, delicately scooping it back onto a plate.

“Where was I?”

“Apparently, Alex is a terrible Guard and I think too much.”

“Not that it’s new information, but yes, specifically here, you are thinking too much. The plan will work, or it won’t,” Jewel says. “If it doesn’t, you devise a new one. The Goddess’ temples know that you’re working hard, and they’ll hardly evict Lily before you’ve caught whoever it is. Your boy will discover what he can. In the meantime, work on something else. You know how it is. The pot boils while you’re not watching it.”

Akela rolls her eyes. “Jewel, you’re saying that as a man who probably could burn boiling water.”

“True enough,” her mentor says cheerfully, grabbing the last slice of pie. “But it’s still true, and you’re going to kick yourself in a minute for being a disgrace to your Player heritage if you can’t take a metaphor.” He waggles the slice at her. “Go halves?”

Akela shrugs. “No, seeing as you’ve more or less eaten this pie, I thought I’d bake another when I got home.”

Jewel pouts, then looks at the slice in his hand. He swallows it in one gulp.

Akela laughs in disbelief. “That’s disgusting!”

“You’re disgusting,” Jewel retorts, his eyes crinkling up with the force of his pie-stained, toothy smile.

They laugh and while away the next hour or so, before Akela kisses Jewel on the cheek, slings her basket back onto her back, and leaves her mentor to enjoy the sunshine.

The Daffodil’s murderer still needs catching, and Lily is as safe as Akela can make her for now, she concludes.

Akela goes back to the Dogrose, hugs Ulrik, Frederik and Henrik tightly, and helps in the kitchen. She bakes, she rolls pastries, she saves a Tyran custard from certain disaster. She asks about Aster’s betrothed and Holly’s new book, and _oh, are we sure there are gardenias on the tables?_

In the silence between conversational topics, with nothing above the chaos of the kitchen, it is too easy to fall inwards, and think.

So Akela steels herself, breathes in the scent of summer wildberries, and asks Harmony if she thinks the base for the cake is right.

Harmony’s smile of understanding and warm pride is the most wonderful thing Akela has ever seen.

* * *

Wednesday, 15th of July, 3:30am

“So,” Akela says. The fire is crackling merrily in the hearth of the room which Rispah has commandeered for their plotting; its light is currently dancing in Rispah’s curls.

“So,” Rispah returns.

Akela takes a long haul of her drink, and spits it back into her mug.

Rispah’s fan flicks out to cover her mouth.

“You switched out my ale,” Akela accuses. “In favour of what tastes like–” she squints at the jug, trying to think of the appropriate comparison. Eventually, she finds it and meets Rispah’s patient blue gaze: “lemonade and horse-piss! Rispah!”

Rispah’s smirk is in her eyes. “I’m sorry, would you have preferred being draped over your partner’s lap from the drink?”

Akela’s eyes narrow. Whoever has told Rispah about the Nine Stages of Drunkenness will pay, and dearly.

Then her mouth twitches. It is a _little_ funny.

“Be that as it may,” Akela says loftily, waggling her mug. “Would you care to switch it back to ale now that they’re gone?”

“No.” She sips her mug daintily, fan now set on the table.

“Such a proper lady,” Akela teases.

Rispah smiles. “Some things never change.” Her smile falters for just a half-second, before she asks, casually: “Stay with me tonight?”

Akela frowns, leaning forward to cover Rispah’s hand. They are alone; there is no-one there to eavesdrop. “Is everything alright?”

Rispah’s smile widens, bright, dazzling, and totally at odds with the vulnerability in blue eyes.

“ _Rispah_ ,” Akela says, as the other woman begins to open her mouth.

Rispah's shoulders slump. “Nightmares. From when George…”

Akela closes her eyes, the memory flashing behind them, her friend’s face both triumphant in his ascension and utterly grey from his wounds and the pain, before healers had come in with orange fire that washed over his body.

That night, she and Rispah visit the bathhouse together, gossiping and enjoying the company until they fall asleep in the warm, apple-blossom scented water, and are shaken awake by an elderly attendant.

“How many lemons did she swallow last night?” Akela whispers in Rispah’s ear, gratified by the giggle the tired old joke produces.

They fall asleep curled against each other’s backs, and Akela wakes in the morning to the sound of the roosters the Dove keeps, and to Rispah’s elbows jammed into her ribs.

“You managed to bruise me in my sleep,” Rispah retorts, when Akela grumbles at her about it, pointing to where Akela’s foot had knocked against Rispah’s thigh, leaving what is absolutely not a bruise, that’s a _birthmark_ , Rispah. “We’re even.”

Akela rolls her eyes. “Come on. We have dancing girls to cajole.”

* * *

 

The second rule of crime is to suspect the witness. – Kebibi Ahuda, 251 H.E, ‘A Treatise on Crime’, edited by Rebakah Cooper

* * *

 

Wednesday, 15th July, 9:30am

Akela Ethansra is proud of her instincts. This is not a new fact. She has always been sharp-eyed and observant, watching people, places, faces, and has prided herself on it. It’s taken the past year of Guard work for her to learn that she can hate her instincts too.

They stand in the easternmost room of the east wing of the Temple. There are guards who patrol the hallway with their battle-axes, but then the mages are protection as well. None of this seems to have helped Lily, whose grey eyes glow for the first time since Akela has met her.

“I will,” she says. She turns to the dancing girls, no sign of a plea in her sharp face. “You don’t have to do this.”

“But we will,” Moonflower says dryly, almond eyes hooded with something like satisfaction, even as her tone remains sarcastic. Akela’s gaze flicks to her, and she sees steel in that gaze. “For Daffodil, we will.” She squeezes Lily’s shoulder. “And for you.”

Akela swallows around the lump in her throat, the way her heart wrenches with sudden envy for the companionship these girls share, a group of girls who will have each other’s backs, no matter what. Stamps down hard on the thought that it’s a pleasure of life she’s unlikely to enjoy.

“Talk to one of the priestesses about going with you, when you go to set things up,” she says, her voice brisk and businesslike. She can do this; she can not afford to lose control. Not now.

Instead, she goes and interviews the inn-keep’s wife of the Crushed Grape, ambushing the poor woman in question with a determined glint in her eye, her badge on her wrist and a casual tug of the spike strap in her braid.

Who reserved the room last Wednesday? A manservant, by the name of Callum Weldon. No, she didn’t know his master was. Did he come here often? She’d seen him here once or twice before, but no, he wasn’t one of her regulars. When did she discover the body? About 7:00, that’s why she was so quick to drag Akela and her partner off the route. When did the Daffodil come to the inn? No later than 6:00, she was sure of it. Did the manservant stay here the whole afternoon? Yes, he did. Went upstairs briefly around the same time as the Daffodil arriving, but before that and for a good hour after that, he was in the tap room.

Akela walks out of the inn, chewing on the information.

_A lead’s a lead. Work with it._

He’s in the right place at the right time. It would be simple. So simple.

_…except why the hell would he do it?_

Akela groans, rubbing a hand over her eyes.

 _Figure it out, Ethansra. It’s your job, dammit_.

She walks back into the Dogrose, climbing in through the window and opening her chest. She pulls out a red and yellow dress, and slips it into a basket, wipes off her make-up and puts on a forest green tunic and leggings. A dozen maids go to the Palace every day, and come back, but if she walks for two hours, people will wonder why the maid was so sloppy as to sweat through her dress before she even got to work. She slips her uniform into a basket, fastens on pattens and stows both boots and delicate leather slippers into the basket, along with a folded piece of paper, and then slings it onto her hip.

Two hours later, she knocks on a door in the Palace. It opens, and she sees the weary face of Alex’s mentor. Myles, that’s right.

“Hello, Akela,” he smiles at her. “Are you looking for my squire?”

“He’d be helpful, but actually I came looking for you, sir,” she says, tugging on her braid.

“Ah. Please, come in,” he says, leading her into the room. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Twilsey, sir?” she asks, smelling the tell-tale scent of apple and vinegar as well as whiskey in the air.

“You’ve been talking to Alex too much,” he snorted, but he reached for the jug instead of the bottle anyway. "So how can I help?”

“Well, I need to find a manservant and possibly his master, and according to Alex, you know everything that happens in the Palace,” she says.

“Not everything,” Myles says, pressing the glass into her hand and leading her to an armchair.

“But a thing or two,” Akela presses.

“Well. Yes.”

“Good. So who should I talk to among the servants if I need to find someone discreetly?”

Myles tilts his head to the side, lifting his eyebrows in amusement. “You come to me as a source for another source?”

“If it were a noble, then I’d come to you in a flash. In fact, we did.”

“So you did,” Myles agrees, acknowledging the hit with a lift of his glass. “So, who should you talk to?” Akela nods. Myles purses his lips. “Do you need to find a man or a woman?”

“A man in this case, but knowing how to find a girl would be useful as well,” Akela says.

“Stefan in the stables is one of the Rogue’s people, and he’d be your first point of information,” Myles begins. “Second – ah, you did say discreetly?” Akela nods. “Well, then. Stefan can keep his mouth shut, of course, but then he’s in the stables, so he has a limited view. In the personal servants’ wing, then one of your best bets would be Timon, His Grace of Naxen’s personal manservant. Then there is Vivian, she works in the laundries.”

“Description?” Akela asks, sitting up a little straighter.

“Green eyes, dark brown hair, on the thin side, high cheekbones, nose was broken once, and didn’t set quite right,” Myles says.

Akela smiles. “Sir, did you ever consider becoming a Guard?”

“Did you ever consider becoming a spy?” Myles counters, his smile widening. “You’d make quite an agent, you know.”

“Too much like working as a Player,” says Akela, getting up out of her chair for a refill. Myles plucks the glass from her hand and gently, firmly pushes her back down into it.

“None of that, youngster,” he says. “You’re the guest here.”

Akela flushes, and Myles just smiles. “As I was saying, Vivian works in the laundries; then there’s Sandy, who works in the kitchens, I know they both have ties to the Rogue. If you couldn’t find them, then Eileen is the deputy housekeeper, and she is very competent and can certainly keep her mouth shut. You don’t need to write this down?”

Akela purses her lips, and grabs a quill. Myles is silent as she scribbles, until she finishes the last sentence, reviewing it with a satisfied nod. She smiles and rises from her chair. “It’s been a pleasure, Sir. If you don’t mind me asking, where has your squire gotten to?”

“He’s down at the fencing courts with His Grace of Naxen,” Sir Myles replies, a hint of pride entering his voice. “If you go dressed as you are, I recommend playing love-struck admirer. He’s acquired one or two in the past.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice, sir,” Akela replies, grinning at him once more, before setting her basket down. “May I leave this here?”

“Certainly, provided there’s no vesper box or alcohol in it.”

Warmth creeping up her neck. “Pretty Boy told you?”

“In great detail,” Myles assures her.

“It was one time!” she protests, even as Myles takes her by the arm and gently escorts her to the door, as though she’s a lady, rather than the maid she’s dressed like, or the nosy, suspicious bastard who pounds the pavement and asks too many questions for her own good that she actually is.

(There’s more of a resemblance between Alex and Sir Myles than she thought.)

* * *

Wednesday, 15th July, 1:00pm

There is a reason that Akela nicknamed her partner Pretty Boy, and it wasn’t just to wind him up.

(This was, of course, an enormous part of it. But still, only a part.)

The other reason is because it's true. Between the high cheekbones, clear skin, full lips, and wide, slanting dark eyes, Alex is going to be a handsome man in a year or so. Admittedly, the lean face and hooked nose will probably add an edge of danger, but according to Cooper, the ladies like that.

She holds her breath, watching him fence with Duke Gareth. The Duke has four inches on Alex, and must have been very handsome when he was younger, judging by the way he has aged. More impressively, watching Alex evade and dodge an increasingly swift series of blows, he is the first person he has seen to force her partner into staying on the defensive. There is a blur of steel, and Alex’s sword skitters to land a few feet away from him.

Alex holds his hands up. “Yield,” he says, breathing harder than normal. His dull brown practise leathers are damp with sweat, and the Duke nods at him, gravely.

“You’re very good, Tirragen. I think your defences need work, though.”

Alex’s mouth twitches, and the Duke raises an eyebrow, before he smiles. “Yes, I know. Prolonged defence is merely a loss. Still, it's good to be prepared. Don't forget that, done properly, most defences serve to _enable_ your attack, not detract from it.”

Alex nods, and the Duke turns to her, arching an eyebrow. “May I help you?”

 _Don’t panic!_ Akela thinks to herself, steeling herself in the face of that extraordinarily polite, veiled dismissal. _No, wait_ , as she remembers the outfit. _Do panic!_

“I – uh – I’m sorry, your Grace,” she stammers, putting a hand to her cheeks and surreptitiously pinching them, to simulate a shy blush. “I, er, wanted to speak to–” She stares at the practise courts, watching out of the corner of her eye how the Duke’s eyes flick between her and Alex.

“If you’ll excuse me, your Grace,” Alex says, with a bow. He walks up to her, his eyes still bright from the swordplay.

“Sorry about this,” she whispers, taking one of his hands in hers.

“And who might you posing as today, Lady of a Thousand Disguises?” he teases, smile brilliant and wild in a way that makes her breath catch in her throat.

“Just a maid from the Palace who is infatuated with a squire,” she whispers back. “And needs to meet him quite soon near the stables before her shift starts. Does that work?”

Alex nods, and steps forward, kissing her forehead, and when did he get _taller_ than her? He smells like sandalwood and sweat, and his lips are soft and warm, lingering for a moment before they withdraw.

“Half an hour. In the meantime, your squire should go and be lectured on the importance of not toying with people.”

Akela stares at him, incredulous. “You? Toy with someone?”

He smirks at her, eyes dancing.

“What, you can’t imagine me as a heartbreaker?”

Akela shakes her head. “You’re the best guy I know, Alex,” she says, all teasing gone from her voice, because if he doesn’t know that by now, he damn well _should_.

His eyes go very wide at that, and he stares at her, his gaze heavy on her. No. He stares at her mouth, his tongue darting across his own lips.

There’s a cough from the practise courts, and Akela hastily steps back, before the treacherous voice of her libido can start murmuring things like _would it really be so bad?_ and _just one, just for luck!_

 _No_ , she tells herself, firmly, hastily kissing Alex on the cheek and turning on her heel. _Behave._ _I won’t do that to him. I won’t be careless with him._

In the meantime, she will start with Stefan Groomsman. She looks around at the completely unfamiliar surroundings.

 _…as soon as I can find him_.

* * *

 

Wednesday, 15th July, 1:40pm

“I couldn’t get a thing out of Stefan,” Akela tells Alex, crossly, leaning against the lee wall of the stables when he walks up. It’s a smile, rather than the outright grin it was before, but his face is still flushed, and his eyes are still sparkling. “How was your scolding?”

“Milder than expected,” Alex says, shrugging. “So where next?”

“Sir Myles said to try Timon. Do you know where His Grace is going next?”

Alex rocks onto his heels, chewing his lip. “There’s no session of the King’s council scheduled today, and most of the court is at the Summer Palace. But then he’s Prime Minister, so he always has to stay behind to oversee the pages and the harvest festival. Probably his office.”

Akela nods. “Let’s try it, then–” before her head swims, and she grips Alex’s shoulders hard.

“Dollface!” his voice is clear and sharp and cuts through the haze of light-headedness, even with the jarring note of panic in it. “What–?”

She groans, as her stomach rumbles. A pause, and then Alex is pulling her into a hug.

“Don’t frighten me like that, you moron,” he says, shaking his head. “When was the last time you ate?”

Akela pauses, and thinks about it. “A while?” she guesses. “I think I had breakfast. Maybe?”

Alex shakes his head. “Come on. Myles and I will feed you. Can you walk?” he asks, arching an eyebrow in mock-solicitousness. “Or should I carry you?”

Akela pokes her tongue out at him, before throwing an arm around his shoulder. “I wouldn’t say no to leaning on you.”

He smiles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

They walk through the Palace, Akela shadowing Alex by several yards, attempting to replicate the attitudes of the other servants that they pass. Not that there are a lot of those. Everyone has gone to the Summer Palace.

“Myles,” Alex says, bursting into the room, “please tell me there’s food.”

Sir Myles looks up from what looks like a veritable explosion of paper across the surface of the table. “On the bed,” he says, jerking a thumb at the bedchamber.

Akela nods, and comes back armed with a tray of turnovers and sweetmeats, and a fruit that she hasn’t ever seen before. Alex eyes the tray dubiously, before helping her balance it on her lap and sitting on the floor beside her.

“Are you trying to fatten me up, Myles?” he asks, reaching for the same turnover as her.

She glares. _Mine. You know I like beef best._

He pokes his tongue out, and takes the chicken instead.

“Surely not,” Myles says absently, studying another one of the documents. “You know I’ve no parental abilities whatsoever. Pass me a plum, please.”

Alex reaches for one of the purple fruits and tosses it.

For someone who is a desk knight, Akela reflects, Myles has rather good reflexes.

“Myles,” Akela asks, “how do we talk to Timon?”

Myles tilts his head to the side, and looks out at her, a distinctive flavour of mischief in the set of his mouth. “Well, you’ve got the first step down already, which is speaking Tortallan–”

Alex shifts his bite of the turnover into one cheek and says, “ _Myles_.”

Scolding your mentor is perfectly appropriate manners, so long as you aren’t doing it through a mouthful of chicken pastry, Akela notes, unable to suppress a smile at the thought. Such is her partner.

“Oh, squire mine, were you born with the mindset of a fifty-year old, or did I somehow teach you that by accident?” Myles teases, grinning at him.

Alex’s glare at his master is venomous, and Myles holds up both hands, chuckling. “Truce.”

“Accepted, so long as you tell us,” Akela says, shooting Myles a Look, eyebrows dangerously level and lips pursed. He raises the parchment: _don’t fire! I surrender!_

“Well, your best bet would probably be to handle it officially,” Myles says. “Finding Timon on his own isn’t easy, so you’d have to go to Duke Gareth. I recommend that you go as yourself, this time.”

Akela purses her lips. “He’ll recognise me. He’s nobody’s fool.”

“He’ll recognise you,” Myles agrees, “probably. Unless you wear your make-up.”

Akela sighs, and takes off the lid of her basket, beginning to shake out her uniform. “I need to be back in the Lower City by four. Time is what we don’t have.”

“What does His Grace’s day look like?” Alex asks Myles.

“Meeting with the ministers for agriculture about the projections for the harvest right now. I think that’s going for another hour or so,” Myles replies. “But then I think he’s reviewing the pages’ curriculum in his office.”

Akela groans. “And his tomorrow?”

“Time with Duchess Roanna and their Majesties, infringed upon pain of cruel and creative punishment,” Myles says solemnly.

Akela brightens. “That means Timon will be free! What does he do when His Grace is with the Duchess and the King and Queen?”

Myles spreads his hands. “My dear, if you can find out, then you will be a much more remarkable investigator than I already think you are.”

“Flattery will not keep me from the answer,” Akela tells him, keeping her face straight.

“He drops his laundry off at nine,” Myles says, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you to espionage?”

Akela snorts. “My lord, with all due respect, you’re incorrigible.”

“Told you so,” Alex says, with so much satisfaction in his voice that Akela smacks him in the bicep.

* * *

Thursday, 16th July, 9:00am

_Just under six feet, brown hair, big guy, ink-stains on his hands…_

“Master Timon? Excuse me, can I speak with you for a minute?” Akela asks, tapping him on the shoulder.

He finishes handing over the basket to the laundress and spins on his heel, arching an eyebrow. “Who’s asking?”

She has never in her life been so grateful for Jewel’s advice to wear her badge around her wrist, and she flashes it now. “Guardswoman Ethansra, Provost’s Guard,” she says. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

His eyebrows rise higher, but he nods, taking her by the arm. “Not in the line,” he says, tugging her over to the wall of the laundry. “What do you need?”

“I’m looking for someone, and I need to know quietly,” she says, shrugging. “Is there a servant in the Palace by the name of Callum Weldon?”

He nods, leaning down to murmur into her ear. “Manservant for Sir Will of Macayhill, one of the junior knights. They won’t be around much longer, though. They’re heading out on assignment by next Monday.” Akela frowns. The name is familiar, and that’s a very bad sign. She combs through her memory. Then it hits her, and she stifles a groan.

Will of Macayhill. One of the Lily’s admirers. Whose manservant appears to be implicated in the death of the Daffodil.

_Fuck._

She pinches the bridge of her nose, and asks, giving Timon a rather strained smile, exactly where she might find Callum Weldon.

“Junior knight’s wing – third floor, west end – fifth door from the end of the corridor on the left,” Timon says. “Will that be all?”

She nods. “Thank you for your time,” she says, quietly, before she leaves the laundries.

Once outside the heat of the room, she leans against the cool stone of the wall and panics. Breathe, she hears Aunt Harmony’s voice ordering her, memories of her coaching her through the nightmares, those first months when she came to live in Corus.

_In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four._

She breathes, long and hard, and thinks of the shine of the sunset on the Daffodil’s hair; the numbness occasionally interrupted by rage in Cate’s grey eyes; of Moonflower's pain, buried in sarcasm but not buried deep enough.

She stands, and goes in search of her partner. She refuses to do this alone.

* * *

 

Thursday, 16th July, 10:30am

Alex readjusts his badge around his neck, looking more ill at ease than she’s ever seen him before. But then he squares his shoulders, and his expression smooths to bland stoicism, the shift she has seen every time before they get into a fight. She squeezes his shoulder, once.

“We’re going to keep this peaceful.”

“Peaceful,” he parrots, dutiful and completely unconvinced.

“I have faith,” she says, and then she knocks on the door.

The door swings open, and the manservant in the doorway takes one look at them, in their uniforms, badges clearly on display, before bolting to the window. Alex swears, and Akela frantically signs stay! before swinging over the window.

Thankfully, she has much more experience with climbing than the manservant does, and she finds handholds and footholds in the chips of stone, getting much closer to the ground while he dangles precariously.

“Heads up!” she hears Alex yell, and she looks up to see him wrestling a pallet out the window, and she smiles, the adrenaline making her feel wild and free even as she scrambles to the right, out of the line of fire.

“Are you crazy?” the manservant screams at him, and Akela cackles.  _Fuck, yes!_

“Yeah!” she yells, as the mattress lands onto the courtyard beneath them. “But if you jump, you probably live!” The man hesitates, and Akela’s grip tightens further. “We just want to ask you some questions, sir,” she says, coaxing now. The challenge has been laid down. Now time to assure. “That’s it.”

Something crumples in his face, and he lets go – Akela’s eyes widen with horror – _out of line with the mattress_.

There’s a cry from the courtyard below, where there are four very well-dressed people, a flash of blue and pink fire, and the pallet slides over, to perfectly cushion the man’s fall.

Akela scrambles to the left, and jumps, landing in a crouch on the much-abused pallet.

“Excuse me,” says a tall, regal man, blue fire still sparkling around his hands. “What exactly is going on here?”

Akela pins the manservant to the mattress, ignoring the question until his arms are secured behind his back – better safe than sorry – and looks up, a perfectly polite and professional explanation on the tip of her tongue. It dies as she looks up and sees a crown nestled onto dark hair, and mystified sapphire blue eyes.

“You’re supposed to be in Port Caynn,” she says, totally dumbstruck, to the King.

Black eyebrows soar. “I’m sorry?”

“I– beg pardon, sir,” she stammers. “I – um – I – had no idea that you would be– the King?” she finishes, and she cringes. Great, just great. She’s met her King in the most unusual circumstances, and now not only does she seem like an idiot, she seems like an idiot who can’t even speak Tortallan.

_The gods are crazy, and they really, really do not like me today._

“Yes, I am, if I am not very much mistaken, your King,” says the Peacemaker. He gestures to the brunette lady at his right. “This lady is Her Majesty, the Queen Lianne; His Grace of Naxen, and his wife, Duchess Roanna.”

“Oh, we’ve met, Roald,” Duke Gareth cuts in, looking at her in amusement. “And who might you be, mistress?”

She can feel Alex’s horrified gaze boring into her back, and she closes her eyes, taking a minute to say a little prayer. Things really can’t get much worse, and this way she might end up losing her badge instead of dead. _This is going to suck._

She flashes her badge anyway. “Guardswoman Akela Ethansra, Lower City Provost’s Guard,” she says. “I’m so sorry, your Majesties, your Graces, I didn’t mean to – uh – that is–” she’s really not quite sure how to finish that sentence.

There is a long, long look exchanged between the quartet. Duke Gareth looked at the Queen; the Queen looked at Duke Gareth, and then looked at the King, then at Duchess Roanna; the King looked at the Queen and Duke Gareth and the Duchess. Duchess Roanna looked up, pursing her lips.

“Dear,” she said, tapping her husband on the bicep. “Isn’t that one of your squires?”

Duke Gareth’s eyebrows rise, at the sight of Alex half-out the window, peering down in horrified fascination – oh, dammit! He had _one_ _job! One!_

She cranes her neck up, and signs a brusque _Watch!_

Alex blushes and ducks back inside, and Akela lets out a sigh of relief.

Duke Gareth lets out a long sigh, shaking his head, and jerks his thumb at the window.

“Guardswoman,” he says, “do I want to know?”

“Probably not, your Grace,” she answers.

The King shakes his head, smiling oddly, and Akela isn’t sure, but she thinks she hears him mutter, “Children, these days” under his breath.

Akela breathes out a long, shaky breath as the quartet stride off.

That’s it?

No execution. No royal displeasure for interrupting. Not even a promise to report her to a superior officer for a dressing down (or – she blanches at the thought – losing her badge.)

Then she quirks a brow down at the man she is still straddling.

“I think,” she says, unable to not smile from sheer relief, “that we’d better call this while we’re ahead. So we’re going to go back up there – by the stairs, even if I have to carry you – and then my partner and I are going to ask you some questions.” He groans into the mattress, and she takes that as acquiescence.

* * *

Thursday, 16th July, 11:00am

“The gods,” Alex announces, as she strides into the room, “have got to be crazy, and you cannot tell Ali Mukhtab that I said that.”

“Damn straight,” Akela agrees, unslinging Callum's arm from over her shoulder. He'd sprained his ankle, despite the cushioning.

Alex takes the interrogation, and Akela watches the door. “Your name is Callum Weldon, yes?” he asks.

“Yes,” the manservant says. His tone is dull, utterly defeated and resigned.

Alex clears his throat, slapping his thigh twice, before continuing.

“Where were you last Wednesday afternoon, Master Weldon?”

“At the Crushed Grape,” he says. “I left around seven.”

_Slap, slap._

“Were you with anyone?” Alex asks.

“No. Why are you slapping your thigh?”

 _Slap_.

Akela’s eyebrows fly up, and her instincts shriek, _pay attention_. It takes all of her self-control to stay in one place.

“You were alone?” Alex reiterates, ignoring the deflection.

“Yes.”

Alex’s voice is a little more chilly now. “It’s in your best interests to tell the truth, Master Weldon,” he says, remaining exquisitely polite.

“I am,” the man protests half-heartedly.

Akela calculates for a moment, and then lets out a derisive snort. No harm in reminding him that Alex has back-up.

“Who are you protecting?” Alex asks, and Akela feels a shock race through her. Oh. _Oh._ Yes, that would explain it.

There is a long, long silence, and Akela’s fingers curl into fists.

“I can’t,” Weldon says at last, his voice tired. “Please. I can’t. He’ll kill me. He’ll make me miserable. I can’t.”

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Alex snaps, and Akela sucks in her breath, sharply, pleading with Mithros and Semele and the Black God, _please, we’re so close, don’t let us lose the thread now_ : “Sorry. That was harsh. But I mean it.

“Yes, I should damn well be afraid.”

“No, you don’t. I promise you, you will be safe.”

“I’m not a woman. The Goddess’ temples won’t take me in. Who would protect me?”

“I will,” Alex says, voice soft and low and deadly with promise. “I can protect you. And I will. If you’re afraid of reprisals for this, then I can protect you.”

“You’re a boy!”

Akela keeps praying, pleading: _please, please, let him stay calm, let him not lose his temper_ …

But apparently her partner grew up while she wasn’t watching, because she can hear in his voice a wolfish grin, rather than an explosion of temper. “No. I’m a _Guard.”_

Akela feels more pride in that moment than she’d ever known she was capable of.

“I am a Guard of the Lower City, and I am sworn to the protection of those who need it. That includes witnesses. So tell me what’s going on, because I know when you’re lying.”

A long, long silence. And then: “My master came to the inn at around six.”

_Slap, slap._

“The innkeeper watches the front entrance, but there’s a side entrance as well.”

_Slap, slap._

“He told me to wait there in the afternoon, with a change of clothes.”

_Slap, slap._

“So I did.”

_Slap, slap._

“He came, around half past five. I went to check on him at six, and he spoke with me for a while. He seemed in a strange mood, more happy than usual. Then the dancing girl came in. She walked into the room, and started dancing. After a few minutes, I went back down to the Common Room. And when I washed my master’s clothes a few days later, one of the doublets was completely stained in blood.”

_Slap, slap._

Akela breathes in sharply. The next thought that comes is faraway, but goes something like: _oh, good. We’ve found our man._

Oh, it’s not enough, they need a confession, or maybe that doublet – and yet. _Yet._

 _It makes sense. Daffodil's insignificant. Who cares? But even if someone does, he sets things up so that if anyone traces him, they trace it to Callum. He trusts in his power over Callum to make him complicit, and it was going to work, except that we pursued the case, and Pretty Boy has the Sight_.

If, if, if. If things had only gone slightly differently…

She breathes a prayer of thanks. _Mithros, I know I said you were crazy, but **thank you**_.

“When is your master likely to be in tonight?” Alex asks the man, his tone suddenly hard.

Akela can feel Callum’s flinch. “Soon, I think. We’re due to head out on border patrol in a few days, so he’ll be back tonight.”

Akela turns from the door, to see Alex nodding at her. “Fine. That gives us some time to plan this,” she says. “Let’s go see Myles. Then we should find Sarge.”

* * *

Thursday, 16th July, 1:00pm

They dismount Starfire in front of Sarge’s home in Flash District. It’s a small, stone cottage with a gate on the side, fronting directly onto the street, like the rest of the houses on the street.

Correction: Alex dismounts, in a single, graceful motion, waiting for Akela to follow. Akela makes the simple and yet critical mistake of trying to swing her leg over the horse’s head rather than its rump, making it rear in a spectacular fashion. She shrieks as she tumbles in the air, rolling with the impact, getting up to her feet more from sheer habit, and the horse rears again.

 _I_ _hate my life today_.

“Starfire!” Alex calls, his voice stern and sure. “Down!” He approaches near the shying horse, murmuring low and soothing, and Akela watches, fascinated. _It’s like he’s communicating with a person,_ she realises, stunned.

“Bringing the Players’ jollity to my doorstep? So thoughtful of you, Ethansra,” Sarge’s voice comes, smooth like olive oil even though he wields his sarcasm like a blade.

“Sir,” she says, coming to instant attention. “We need to talk.”

“The four most dangerous words in Tortallan,” her Sergeant says. He is half dressed, and tossing a knife from hand to hand. _He came outside when he heard the scream._

“Yes, sir,” Akela says, keeping her face smooth.

Her Sergeant groans. “Ethansra, don’t ‘yes, sir’ me. It makes me feel like a bastard.”

“Sir.”

“And there’s no need to agree quite that enthusiastically,” he says, dryly.

Akela smiles. “Yes, sir.”

She looks at where Pretty Boy now has Starfire by the bridle, and is leading the horse to him.

“You can turn him loose in the yard,” Sarge says, leading them to a side-gate by the cottage, “and from the looks of your faces, you’d better come in.”

“We have an arrest to make,” Alex says, taking off Starfire’s bridle and setting it on a hook in the wall.

“I’m glad to hear that you’re doing your jobs,” the Sergeant says. “Congratulations.”

“We need another pair to cover Rovers Street tonight,” Akela clarifies. “Our arrest is at the Palace.”

Sarge chuckles. “Nice try, kid. Your delivery is good, but you need to make it more plausible this time.”

“Sergeant,” Alex says, his voice straining with keeping his temper under control, his eyebrows knitting into a fierce scowl, “we’re _not_ joking.”

The Sergeant takes a long, long look at them and shakes his head. “Alright, damage report.”

Akela takes a deep breath, and begins the whole ugly story from the beginning.

Sergeant shakes his head, as she gets to the part where they’ve discovered Callum Weldon is covering for his master.

“Arresting a noble. For a dancing girl’s murder.”

“Her name was Flick, and she was a person,” Akela argues. “She was part of the Lower City. She was loved, Sarge.”

“Emphasis on 'part of the _Lower_ City!' 'She was loved?'" Sarge repeats, mimicking her words in a falsetto before dropping into his own baritone. "So were the babies who disappear every night in the Cesspool. The world doesn’t work that way, Ethansra! I wish it did, too, but you can’t afford to base this call on sentiment!”

“She’s not.” Alex’s voice is hard and sharp, like glacier ice and shards of glass. “Nobles aren’t above the law. It’s the law that makes them nobles. And maybe past generations haven’t understood that. But I do. The Prince does. His Grace of Naxen does.”

He shakes his head. “Our man is not getting off the hook. Not this time.”

Sarge massages his forehead. “You think you can do this?”

“I know we can,” Alex says.

Sarge is quiet for a long, long time.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll find a pair from Fourth Watch to cover Rovers Street.”

Akela feels a flood of relief, cascading over and under the irritation of how Sarge trusts Alex more than he trusts her. That’s fine. It won’t endanger the case. It’s fine, she tells herself, as Alex helps her swing up onto Starfire’s back and they head back to the Palace.

* * *

 

Thursday, 16th July, 2:15pm

“What’s eating at you?” Alex asks her, from his position on their suspect’s bed.

“Nothing,” Akela says, immediately regretting it. It’s the least convincing answer to such a question and she knows it.

Sure enough, Alex snorts.

Do squires get lessons in that? Akela wonders. It is, after all, very expressive. Patrician, elegant, and derisive, communicating in a single violent exhalation exactly what the deliverer thought of the addressed party’s notions.

“Try again, Dollface,” her partner suggests, uncovering the apple-raisin patties and bowls of stew that Myles had left in the knight’s room as lunch. Akela grabs a patty, about to bite into it – and thus, delay answering – before it is snatched from her hand. She scowls at her partner.

“Do you want me to murder you?” she asks him, putting both hands on her hips.

“No, but it wouldn’t be a surprise, given how much you’re biting my head off at present,” Alex retorts, taking another spoonful of his stew. “You know if you keep it inside it will fester. If you get it out, we can fix it.”

“You can’t,” she says. The words are quiet, and they pass from her mouth with the heaviness of a condemnation. She can feel the worry in his gaze, as the spoon pauses halfway to his mouth.

“Are you sure about that?”

Her lips curve into a bitter smile. “Positive.”

“I’d like to hear what it is anyway, even if I can’t fix it,” he says, sounding hurt.

She bites her lip, but the dam breaks within ten seconds.

“It’s just,” she starts. “It’s just. It’s not that you’re not a good partner, but…I’ve been working on this case night and day, and then Sarge trusts you to make the call. But with me, it’s ‘you can’t base these things off sentiment, Ethansra’ and I know I’m too emotional and it’s a bad thing in a Guard, but…can’t he trust me?”

Comprehension flashes in wide dark eyes, and he sighs, setting the bowl of stew down on the bedside table, and sliding off the bed. “Come here,” he tells her, and she steps into the circle of his arms, almost shaking with the fury, that after all her work, the sacrifice, the endless days of training, _not good enough, never good enough_. “I know,” he whispers into her hair. Oh. Had she said that aloud? “I’m here. It’s alright.”

“No it’s not!” she says, her voice angry and low, snarling into the crook of his neck.

Silence, and then: “No, it’s not,” he agrees. “It’s awful.”

“I’m never going to be good enough for him,” she says, anger rising with the tears stinging at her eyes. “Never. I’m just a girl, and that’s all he’s ever going to see me as, and even though I work twice as hard, at best he’ll see me as half as good.”

Alex rubs slow circles into her back, and Akela snarls her rage into his shoulder, words muffled by the black of his tunic, tears soaking through the soft cotton fabric. He stays there, mountain steady and unflinching against the storm of emotion that threatens to overwhelm her. Eventually, she runs out of words and tears, burying her face in his shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispers, softly. “And it’s going to get better, Akela. I promise.”

She dredges up a laugh from who-knows-where. “You can’t fix this, Alex.”

“I can’t,” he agrees. “And nor can you. But it will be easier for the girl after you, and the girl after her, and the girl after her. It’s going to get better.”

“How do you know?” she whispers.

Her partner shrugs. “It’s the way it works,” he says, kissing her hair once. “It was easier for me than it was for Selwyn. It was easier for Danao of Sinthya than it was for me. That trend is only going one way, Akela. We just have to wait.”

Akela sighs. “But I _hate_ the waiting,” she complains, knowing exactly how childish it sounds.

His arms are warm around her. “Me, too.”

* * *

 

Thursday, 16th July, 3:15pm

“Akela, I am not learning the Moose Song.”

“Then I’ll sing it anyway! _What’s sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose–”_

* * *

 

Thursday, 16th July, 4:15pm

“And then Duncan said that Delia would end up married to Ralon, of all people!” Alex finishes, throwing up his hands in exasperation. Akela nods sympathetically.

“Men. Who knows how they think?”

“Exac–oh, _dammit_ , Akela, that is not fair!”

Akela smirks. “Since when do I play fair?”

* * *

Thursday, 16th July, 5:15pm

“Is it just me, or do I have really long toes?” Akela asks, staring at the extremities in question. The nails glitter with the henna she has just applied. If Macayhill shows up in the next ten minutes, Alex is going to have to cover the pursuit.

“No, it’s not just you,” Alex says, without opening his eyes.

“You’re so supportive, Pretty Boy.”

“I try, Dollface, I really do.”

* * *

 

Thursday, 16th July, 7:15pm

“Weldon! Where’s the moonshine I bought in Trebond?” someone bellows, as they come down the hall. Akela slides her baton into her belt, and she sees Alex discreetly checking his weapons. She jerks her thumb: cover the window. He nods, walking over, a human block between their suspect and the exit. “Weldon!”

He’s at the door now, and Akela unclips her thongs from her belt.

The door flies open, and a tall, red-faced young man is standing in the doorway.

He can’t be more than twenty, Akela realises. “Sir William of Macayhill,” she greets him.

“Who the hell are you?” he demands, striding into the room. Good. _Good._

She walks to the door, putting a certain slouch into the walk, just enough to present the front of someone who has been cowed. He hasn’t even noticed Alex yet.

“My name is Guardswoman Akela Ethansra,” she says, when satisfied with her position. “And I am placing you under arrest for suspicion of murder.”

She can see the shock on his face, followed by rage – _how dare you defy me_ , almost – before he charges at her, bellowing.

Akela stands her ground, and slams her baton into his throat when he is about a foot away. Her free hand curls around his shoulder, bringing him close so that she can slam a vicious knee to his groin, a punch to his jaw. He manages to get in a fist to her eye, and she retaliates with a fist to his nose, and the bone crunches under her fist. Yanking him by the collar of his tunic, she throws him to the floor over her hip. He groans on the floor of the corridor, and then she is on him, pinning his arms behind his back and cording them.

One murderer, wrapped up in string and brown parcel paper.

“You can’t do dis!” he says, thickly.

“Oh, but she very much can,” her partner says, walking into the corridor. “Hello, Sir William. My name is Alex of Tirragen, and if you try and use noble privilege to skate out of this one, His Grace of Naxen will flay you alive on the fencing court, and hand the remains over to the Temples of the Goddess. Or you can come quietly. Your choice,” he says, eyes cold.

Sir William goes limp under Akela’s hands, and she smiles up at her partner. “Thanks,” she says, even though she didn’t need it. Relationships need maintenance.

He smiles back at her. “Anytime,” he says.

“Come on, help me get him up,” she says, carefully rolling off the prone knight beneath her.

“We should definitely tell His Grace first, before we get him to the station, though,” Alex says.

She can feel Sir William’s flinch, and Akela grins.

“Good idea,” she says. “Where we can find him?”

“He’ll be in his office,” Alex says, as they get the man to his feet.

* * *

 

Thursday, 16th of July, 7:30pm

“Good evening, your Grace,” she grins, as they walk into the study, walking straight past a flabbergasted Timon, waggling the fingers of her free hand at the stunned servant, his thoughts written in large print across his face: _what the hell is happening right now?_

The Duke looks up from the stack of paper work, and his eyes flit from Akela, grinning widely, to the broken-nosed knight between them, to Alex, who is smiling as well.

“Tirragen,” the Duke’s voice is tired. “Guardswoman.”

“Your Grace,” Alex says, inclining his head.

There is a long, long silence.

“Would you care to explain?” His Grace asks.

“Your Grace, we’ve arrested this man on suspicion of murder of a woman whose body we found in the Lower City last week,” Akela says.

“A dancing girl,” William says.

Alex lets out a sigh, and Akela can’t help but agree. It’s pathetic when they inadvertently implicate themselves before they even crack at questioning. Useful, absolutely. But pathetic.

His Grace’s eyebrows rise. “I see.”

“We wanted to let you know, given that he will be unavailable for his border patrol roster.”

The eyebrows rise higher. “May I ask how you know–?”

“Servants’ grapevine,” Akela says, with a shrug.

“Ah.” A gracious nod, and Akela marvels at his equanimity. _How is he this calm?_ “I see. Arrangements will be made for the patrol, and I trust that you will treat him with every due process.”

“Yes, sir,” Akela says, bringing her fist to her heart in a quick salute. The Duke rises and returns the gesture.

“Oh, and Sir William,” the remark comes as they're almost at the door. Akela and Alex exchange looks, and pivot him around.

The Duke’s eyes are cold. “You will fully cooperate with this investigation. Suspicion of murder is a serious charge which no-one makes lightly, and if I learn that you have been using any kind of political cover or noble privilege to escape the scrutiny of the law, then you are not too old for me to challenge you on the fencing courts.” He bares his teeth, in what is only technically a smile. “Are we clear?”

Akela knows her eyes are wide, and she also can see Alex’s smirk out of the corner of her eye, his teacher's imprint on his face. From Sir William, there is a suddenly shaky nod.

On that note, they begin the walk from Duke Gareth’s office to the Jane Street station.

It’s going to take a while.

* * *

Thursday, 16th of July, 9:00pm

“Mithros’ spear, you went and did it,” Sarge says, standing up from his desk, blue eyes wide and stunned. “We did it,” Akela confirms.

“Your third murder, and you go and arrest a noble,” Sarge says, shaking his head.

“He did it,” Alex shrugs. “He all but confessed in front of His Grace.”

“I did not!” the man protests.

Akela snorts. “We said when we hobbled you that we were arresting you on suspicion of murder. Later, in front of his Grace, we added that we found the body of the person you are suspected of murdering about a week ago. You then clarified that it was a dancing girl. Which you – nobleman that you are – _could not have known if you did not do it_.”

She sees the realisation sink in, the horror in his gaze as he understands that he has condemned himself – and in front of a _witness_.

He shrieks, furious, as they take him to the nearest holding cell, unbind his cords and Akela dodges the sudden overarm blow, only registering the knife when it clatters to the ground. Alex has him in a hammer lock, and he shrieks into her ear as she frisks him, removing the other boot dagger.

“You’ll be sorry for this! I’ll get you! I’ll get you!” he screams.

Akela gives Alex the nod to release him out of the corner of her eye, and they walk out of the cell.

As the door slides shut, she turns to regard him, for a long moment. And after a while, she _sees_ him: a spoiled little boy, who has never known how to take ‘no’ for an answer, and seemingly, no-one ever bothered with enough to make sure that he grew up and grew some brains.

It’s not pity. Contempt is the sensation that rises in her throat.

“No,” she says, quietly and steadily, meeting his eyes. “No, I will never be sorry for this.”

She turns to Sarge, who looks at the man wryly. “You always manage to surprise me, Ethansra.” He looks at her, and frowns. “You look like hell.”

“Thank you, Sarge,” Akela says, touching her paint subconsciously. Her fingers come away red, when she brushes them above her left eyebrow.

“Under the make-up, I mean. When was the last time you slept a solid eight?”

Akela thinks. “Before we found Daffodil’s body,” she admits.

Her Sergeant snorts. “It’s showing. Have a talk with Jewel about keeping a solid sleep schedule on this job. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that keeps you going.”

Akela nods, slowly, accepting the advice. “I’ll do that, sir.”

He snorts again, putting a quick hand on her shoulder. “Good work. Take the rest of the night off. Have a drink, and go to bed.”

Akela grins. “Yes, sir!” she turns to Alex, who is looking at her with pure and unadulterated despair on his face. The intensity of the despair does not lessen when she cackles in response.

“Dollface–” he begins, as she, still cackling, grabs his arm and drags him after her.

“Oh, relax,” the second they’re out of the line of sight of the rest of the station, she leans up and kisses him on the cheek. “I’ll stop at one drink. We go one place you want, and you go one place I want. _The Dogrose_. I want you to meet my family.”

Alex looks quietly, completely delighted, for half a second, before a convincing impression of exasperation replaces it.  _He's learning._

“Alright,” he concedes, wrapping his fingers around hers. “But I want us to go to the Goddess' Temple.”

Akela groans, hiding her smile with considerably more success. “ _Why_.”

* * *

 

Thursday, 16th July,  9:40pm

It hadn’t been that bad a decision to come to the Temple, Akela thinks, reaching for the statue of the Goddess, and tracing the elegant features of the statue. The main room is deserted, glowing in the moonlight, the pearl accents of the walls glittering in the pale light, in contrast to the blue grey of the stone floors.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” a priestess asks, gliding across the floor to come to Akela’s side. Her hood is down, revealing tightly coiled hair, despite the late hour.

_Night shift, maybe?_

“Yes,” Akela admits, retracting her hand. The priestess catches it and replaces it on the Goddess’ cheek.

“But she’s not yours,” she says, almost fondly, in seeming contradiction to what she just did.

Akela arches an eyebrow. “Every woman is protected by the Goddess’ wings.”

The priestess smiles. “Ah. But not every woman is sworn to her service.”

Akela chuckles, acknowledging the hit. “You caught me.”

The priestess tilts her head to the side, evaluating her with curious, steady eyes. Akela looks back.

“You seem familiar,” Akela lies.

A wry quirk to the priestess' mouth. “My name is Charity. Yours, according to that young man there, is Akela.”

Akela glances at her partner. He kneels before one of the statues, his eyes closed, his expression raw and open, almost glowing with something beyond the moonlight.

The priestess nods. “Thank you for your service.”

Akela smiles, fist over her heart. “And thank you for yours.”

* * *

 

Thursday, 11:00pm

They’re at the Dogrose, for convenience’s sake.

Thankfully, it’s a quiet night, so Akela can pick her favourite table: closest to the stage, with her seat enabling a direct line of sight to the bar, and to the doors into the street beyond.

Her foster brothers are surrounding Alex, having unanimously decided to take breaks from the accounts, bouncing, and bartending simultaneously, in order to meet him. Erik slaps a tankard into Alex’s hand, and grins at Akela, whose jack is already in her hand and half drained.

She’s never been very good at savouring things.

Aunt Harmony emerges from the kitchen, smiling, tired, and still with specks of flour on her nose, coming to sit at Akela’s left.

“I promised him I’d only take one mug, so he didn’t have to babysit me,” Akela says to her Uncle, who is busy topping her jack up.

Uncle Erik winks at her. “If necessary, I’ll do the honours,” he says.

Movement catches her eye. Akela notices a man and a woman at the bar, who weren’t there before.

The man is a big fellow – Carthaki, she thinks – whose hand is resting gently at the woman’s waist, who seems to be looking at their noisy table with a kind of fond indulgence, the kind of expression she usually sees on mothers watching their children play.

Startling violet eyes meet hers, and Akela sucks in her breath, because she knows that face, had prayed to it every night as a wandering Player, and the features are different from the rough wood cut but not by much. Her jaw drops when she realises that she knows the man’s face as well, has quietly saluted it with a fist to her heart every time she crosses the threshold of the station into the street again.

Semele, Goddess of the Players and the arts, has a smile warm as flickering flames, and it spreads across her face as clearly as Akela’s recognition must be doing right now. Mithros’ smile is less wide, drier, but also seems…fond? Proud, even?

Semele inclines her head, winks, and raises a jack in toast.

Stunned, Akela lifts her mug in reply, and four other tankards meet hers.

“To the Guards,” Alex says proudly, and she tears her eyes away to meet her partner’s smiling eyes.

“To the Guards,” she agrees.

When she looks back, Semele and Mithros are gone, with no evidence left in their wake, except for a warm impression. _You did good, kid_.

Akela settles back into her seat, leans her head on her foster mother’s chest, and listens to her family discussing the finer points of knife-throwing.

 _It’s good to be home,_ she decides.

_– fin_


End file.
